


In Company

by hisboywriter



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:13:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4517946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisboywriter/pseuds/hisboywriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which observations are made in the daily oddity that is living with the Handymen.</p><p>AKA I am indulging in all sorts of moments (and headcanons) between the Handymen and Alex. Can be read in any order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jessica

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stefanyd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stefanyd/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some homes have crosses. The Handymen have Jessica.

**-x-**

It takes Alex more than a week to notice it.

She’s seen the poster (it’s a feat not to) long before today, a proud trademark to an entire wall and just perpendicular to the one with a bookcase lined with books that, she was curious to learn, are not riddled with lewd pictures or smut.

But now it’s less the woman gracing the forefront of the poster catching Alex’s eye, and more the name on it. She’s sure she’s noticed the curl of letters in the corner of her vision when she first glanced at the picture, got distracted by its biggest assets, and then quickly averted her gaze--and there had been a mental voice not belonging to her jeering at her for looking away as if she hasn’t seen worse, done worse.

Today, there’s no voice, so Alex bypasses the woman winking at her and, instead, reads the name.

Jessica.

It fits, somehow.

Alex figures her newfound attention on the poster is a product of familiarity, something that she only recently came to notice. Not to assert that her place is a staple amongst the Handymen, but nowadays she’s less stumbling after one or the other and now trailing, usually close by.

Sometimes it’s on errands, at times with both of them, but Fridays it’s just Nicolas and his silence, their arms full of deliveries, both their eyes flicking in hopes of catching glimpses of that darn cat that always seems to wander off and then reappear when they’re on a tight schedule.

And sometimes it’s just her, answering phones, relaying messages and tidying up when she’s not doing any of that. Like today, which brought her attention on the poster under her mild scrutiny, mid-tidying. Up close, the name looks written on by pen rather than mass produced.

An autograph?

It begs just another question, perched on the stack of all the others Alex still has.

Alex starts when Nicolas is suddenly in her vision, and realizes just how close she’s stepped up to the wall. Gawking at Jessica.

Feeling incredibly warm, Alex holds steady as Nicolas takes her in from the doorway, almost casually. It’s as if he’s aware she’s still around and yet calculating for how much longer. So she can only guess anyway, though part of her is still occupied on the fact of how silent Nicolas is.

A fresh memory of Worick complaining that Nic can use a bell around his neck is just one of many other memories testifying to the Tag’s competence in all things relating to a swift death when so called.

Alex swallows, forces herself to relax.

“Good morning,” she says, gripping her hands in front of her before signing the greeting. It’s not the first time she’s done it, and it’s not the first time Nicolas doesn’t respond to it.

Rather, Nicolas tilts his head and shifts his eyes on the poster. He looks fresh from a shower, and Alex can’t help think how extensive his training is, and how each time she feels like she’s impeding on something almost personal the few times she went downstairs during it. His hair hangs forward, and Alex dares to think he looks more comfortable that way.

It’s barely a heartbeat of Nicolas looking to the poster and back at Alex. She can’t deny she watches his face for a reaction to what is far more a member in the Handymen’s home than she is, but Nicolas only looked at it as though it may as well be a blank piece of paper.

She wants to say something, and when she’s about to retreat back into cleaning, Nicolas is the one to speak.

" **J** _E_ **s** S **Ic** _a_."

Alex stops at the rarity of Nicolas’ voice filling the usually quiet space between them.

Alex blinks once, twice, then looks back at the poster. It’s the first time he’s engaged her like this. “Oh. Er..?”

Nicolas shrugs one shoulder and adds, " **P** _o_ R _ **N**  _s **T** A _r."_

Like that explains everything.

“I...I see,” Alex says, but she’s less interested in the infamous Jessica and more on Nic, who makes a vague gesture she can’t pinpoint is signing. He’s already maneuvering to the bookcase, fingers reaching out for a story he’s decided on. The conversation, for what it was, ends.

Alex catches the title of the book before it’s lost in the girth of Nic’s hand. Hamlet.

Nicolas doesn’t take the book downstairs to read as Alex predicts, nor does she know why. He’s flipped to a page and sinks into the couch that Alex doesn’t switch off with Worick every other night.

Nicolas reads. Nothing less than approaching him may pique his senses, but nothing else Alex can think to do may earn his attention as it had moments before. The silence between them returns.

Alex doesn’t want to stare much. She’s observed (in bits) Nicolas reading, and it’s a sight that even now puts the air around her at ease. Fingers that have crushed windpipes now flick page after page. The torrent of Nicolas’ movement during battle shrinks to a stillness that, to most others, borders on eerie. Inhuman.

To Alex, it’s almost serene.

It has potential, to pick up where Nicolas left their conversation (in the most diluted sense of the word). She mentally fumbles over possible openings, of questions to ask him. She can envision it, sitting on the edge of the other couch, waving at him and remarking on her lack of familiarity with Hamlet, but not necessarily Shakespeare altogether.

None of them inspire her courage.

Alex peeks back at the poster, like it may impart some wisdom.

For the second time, she’s caught ogling.

This time it’s Worick, exiting his room with a stretch. “Good morning,” Worick half-sings, half-yawns. His eye spots Alex first, and by the tilt of his mouth she knows he saw her staring. “Ah, you have excellent taste, Al-chan.”

“It’s the afternoon,” Alex tells him, shaking her head. She hardly has a tone about that; it’s the day after Worick’s main job, and it still looks like he has yet to indulge sleep.

“Mm, is it?” Worick shuffles past, zeroing in on Nicolas, who doesn’t so much as break from reading as he signs with one hand. Alex struggles to pinpoint the movements, so precise despite the size of his fingers.

“What? Jessica? Is not,” Worick says in response, draping himself on the back of the couch Nic sits on. “I’m of the mind that Jessica wards off evil. You know, like how some people have crosses. We have Jessica.”

Alex notes the way Nicolas ticked his gaze over the book after signing to look at Worick’s lips, as if anticipating a response. The fluidity of their responses to each other leaves her feeling unbalanced.

“She’s a porn star.” It blurts out of Alex before she can swallow it back down. It sounds more ridiculous than it had in her head. Then, because her tongue’s getting away from her now, she adds, “Ah...Nicolas...told me. I didn’t know.”

“Oh.” Worick quirks a brow over at her, then smirks toward Nicolas. “A star she is. Quite humble about it too.”

Alex can’t tell if he’s speaking from experience or not. “She’s famous?”

“Indeed. She could melt candles with her eyes alone,” Worick says, a breathless sigh trickling out of him. He presses his hands to his cheeks as if warding off a blush, though Alex knows better. “One can learn plenty from her. She’s amazing.”

Alex almost asks what he means, then goes a little pink when it dawns on her. She hears Nicolas snort, and the questions that nearly worked its way out of her fall back down. The noise draws Worick’s attention again and he leans closer, half swathed against Nicolas’ shoulders and back.

“Aw, you’re reading this again?”

Nicolas angles the book away from Worick’s grasp, scowling. He signs too quickly, aggressively, for Alex to attempt to read.

“Jessica, is too, a masterpiece, if of a different medium. What? Is not. Is _not_.”

From her viewpoint, Alex watches their grappling and listens to one side of the bickering. She hesitates to say something, part of her absorbed in their actions, which becomes less of Worick snatching the book away and more him complaining while Nicolas seems to try and make a point of reading that much more intently in front of him.

Though they’re hardly ten feet away from Alex, she feels so far away.

Her gaze drops to the book, mind drifting back to the poster, and the strange intricacies that made them both exist in the cramped quarters of the Handymen’s apartment, and equally appreciated.

“...think?....Hello, Al-chan?”

Alex tenses and blinks out of her stupor entirely. Both Worick and Nicolas are unmoving, the former still partly pressed over the disgruntled Nicolas. They’re looking right at her.

“Ah,” Alex tucks her hair behind her ear, nervous, “Er...sorry, what was that?”

“Have you read it?” Worick asks, leaning back to prop his chin on his hand. “Hamlet, I mean.”

“Oh...” Alex glances back at the book, then adds, “Yes. But I...don’t remember all the details of it.”

Nicolas’ eyes barely widen, and it takes Alex a moment too long to know why. Her confession has Worick drop his hand from his face and, like a bullet, off he goes.

In a matter of seconds, it’s all about the mediocrity, the absolutely grandiloquent drama known as Hamlet and, more importantly, the ridiculousness, no, the audacity, of the high esteem so many hold it as.

It’s a rant. Even if it’s sweetened the way only Worick’s tongue can.

It tickles something in her. She presses her lips together firmly.

At some point, Alex flicks her eyes down when feeling Nicolas’ gaze on her, strained. Nicolas spares Worick a glance, looks at her again. Then rolls his eyes.

Alex’s lip twitches. When Nicolas makes a crude gesture, she raises her hand to cover a smile, but when he does it again, the laugh breaks through her low defenses. The sound is foreign to her ears, short-lived as it is.

It stops Worick mid-talk. He stares at her, and the face Nicolas makes at that has her laugh stretch out.

She tries to apologize around it as it wanes, leaving her feel lighter. She wants to tell Worick she’s surprised by his enthusiasm on the subject and his view of the play, yet all that manages to come out is a small, breathless chuckle.

Worick’s smile falls to something sheepish, then softens. Nicolas uses the opportunity to tilt his head back, reach up and yank Worick down by the back of his neck so their foreheads almost crash. It has Worick choke out a curse, but before it can bitch further, Nicolas signs between the small space between them.

There’s one sign Alex picks out: **[** **Food.]**

“Mind the strength, will you? Can’t have my clients seeing bruises they didn’t put there themselves…”

Nicolas’ hand moves again, a little sneer to his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Worick straightens easily, Nicolas’ hand on his neck not a restriction as it slips off smoothly. He sighs. “I could use a good meal myself. First meal of the day is most important, hm? I think I worked up my appetite enough, right, Al-chan?.”

Alex smiles back at him. “I can cook something,” she offers, perhaps a little too quickly. She remembers the lack of food in the fridge downstairs.

Worick groans around a stretch. “Hm. Actually,” he looks at Nicolas, “What do you think, go out? Todays’ the special over at The Drag.”

Nicolas nods, bookmarks his page, and places the book back on the shelf, but not without a hard look to Worick, who only hums and saunters back into his room with a wave of his hand.

Before Alex can gather up anything in her to get his attention, Nicolas is already out the door with sword at the hip.

The door’s left open and Alex watches the empty space of the doorway.

She turns and Jessica’s still there, as she’s always been, seeing far more of the Handymen than Alex ever has. Her mind wanders, thinking she can start a shopping list while the men are out at dinner. Yet by the third item on her mental list, Alex is thinking of Nicolas’ reading in her company, his eyeroll, Worick’s rant, the feel of the smile growing on her, the feel in her chest when she laughed because of them.

“Al-chan?”

She jerks her head toward the entrance. Worick’s slouching forward, already dressed and groomed, in the doorway. He’s blinking at her expectantly.

“Again, excellent taste, and I’ll tell you all my favorite scenes of her over dinner,” he says, smirking, “but we don’t want the special to run out. I bet you’re going to love it.”

Alex straightens. “Me?”

“You’re quite the space cadet today, aren’t you?” Worick’s laugh is soft. “Come on. Nic gets especially grouchy when he’s hungry.”

Alex’s stomach does a flip. It’s not a bad feeling at all.

The list is abandoned.

“Coming!”

Just before she leaves, she pays the poster one, final look, and revisits Worick’s earlier words. Where some homes have crosses, the Handymen have Jessica.

It's not until later, when they let her have the juicier steak and Worick's telling her stories and Nicolas is furtively pinching walnuts off his partner's salad, Alex thinks she prefers it like that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this first one wasn't too dull but I felt it was a better way to introduce the series, even though the chapters can be read in any order really (and I am a bit lazy to post them separately and link them as a collection instead).
> 
> I hope to make this an ambiguous series that just has the three comforting one another, living together.
> 
> I do have a separate Nic/Worick series ("Just You and I") if you're looking for something more established and with smut.
> 
> Thank you for reading very, very much!


	2. Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first time Alex doesn't wake up alone.

 

The first time Alex doesn’t wake up alone is on a rainy day.

The storm had been lurking over the city’s perimeter all morning, a thick curtain as dark as the nights in Ergastulum. Then, with a rush of wind so bitter it stung, a gloom fell upon them, and then the rain. It battered down, and each hour convinced Alex its ferocity was still growing, as if agitated.

The Handymen services closed early, and even Worick muttered something about his clients if the rain didn’t let up. That was before he decided to hold up in his room for post-client recovery time (it's what Alex calls it now). She doesn’t need her own trick-turning experience to understand the strain around the gigolo's eyes and the way he rubs his neck.

That hardly left her with Nic's company, however. Almost as soon as Worick's door clicked shut, Nicolas glanced at her before altogether abandoning her for the sanctity of downstairs. Though the entire floor is not marked off as Nicolas' property, Alex feels she's all the same invading his space, and opts to deflate into the couch with a sigh.

The storm rages on.

At the least, Alex finds relief that they're all here, sheltered from the cold, the winds, the way the rain's coming like daggers at an angle. There are many others less fortunate in a city like this, and those with shelter sometimes pay too high a price for it. She tries to dwell on that fact.

She can think about what they'll do for dinner, or what Worick and Nicolas think of the rain, anything to calm her urge to check in on them. In the end, she draws her legs up, looks, and listens to the storm.

The rain scratches down the window, and there's a darkness beyond it so deep it looks made to breed monsters.

She shuts her eyes, finds rhythm in the storm. Gradually, she dozes.

The nightmare thrusts her into wakefulness.

There's the momentary adrenaline of panic, and it’s a crack of thunder that jerks her completely back to the present.

She’s pressed up against something warm, her arms looped around what she realizes is an arm. There’s no tickle of a smell that’s uniquely Worick’s, so she dares to peek up and blanch when Nicolas is staring at her.

He doesn’t look thrilled.

Alex sits up, an apology spilling out of her before she even knows what she’s apologizing for. She stops when she feels a blanket she hadn’t brought with her slip off and pool around her. She touches it, then looks at Nicolas. It's a trivial thought, but Alex realizes that it’s the first time she has awakened to something other than her own thoughts. Just like she can’t help note that Nicolas smells like the soap they all use and is fresh in more comfortable clothing than the suit he wore all morning.

He hasn’t recoiled yet.

Nicolas tilts his head at her, raises his hand, looks away as if he’s irritated, then addresses her with the rarity that is his voice.

“Y _o_ **U W** eR ** _E_** _m_ Ovi **N** G **A** rO **uN** _D_.”

Alex digests that, and the way it’s worded. A bad dream then. She knows she had one, but its horrors already slipped through her fingers. Nicolas could have just as easily said she was having a nightmare, aired it out in the not-so-large space between them. Also a rarity.

She looks down at the blanket and tucks it back up around her. It’s not the first time she’s awoken with a blanket on her that she doesn’t remember using.

A smile reaches her, small, and she says and signs simultaneously: “Thank you.” She gestures to the blanket.

Nicolas doesn’t confirm it was him who draped it over her. Alex hesitates, tempted to say more on why she must have latched onto him, but feels silly upon remembering just how strong Nicolas is, how little it would take for him to have pried her off.

“I like the rain,” she says, as if Nicolas even cared if the storm had prompted her terror. She’s not looking up to know if he’s reading her lips, but she adds on, quieter, “I guess the thunder must have scared me.”

There’s a memory teasing her in the backdrop of a storm. Yet, like others, just as she’s on the cusp of it, it washes out into nothing but a dull feeling deep in her stomach.

She looks up again and sees Nicolas waving dismissively toward his ear. It takes her a moment to recognize he’s saying something with the gesture.

Alex cocks her head.

Then, laughs.

“No, I guess you couldn’t hear it,” she says, feeling her smile stronger now. She hesitates, then signs for Nicolas to wait. It’s not as sloppy as she once was.

She leaves and returns shortly with two full mugs. She extends one for Nicolas after a moment’s reluctance.

He watches her for a heartbeat that feels like an eternity. Then, he reaches out with a large hand and accepts the hot chocolate. Feeling victorious, albeit a little shaken up, Alex settles down beside him, not pushing her luck when Nicolas stays sitting in lieu of taking up residency on the other couch.

She studies the way he sips the drink without bothering to let it cool. If it hurts, she can’t tell.

He looks at her again. He signs.

**[So-so.]**

Alex presses her lips firmly together.

Nicolas continues to drink it.

They stay like that, and Alex knows it’s awkward, and the nightmare’s after effects still leave her feeling clammy, but her smile doesn’t wane. They both watch the storm.

Several sips into her drink, Alex hears the door to Worick’s room open. She glances back to find him in sweatpants, his patch still on, and hair stuck in a few funny angles. Even the disheveled look on him looks purposely crafted.

“It’s still pissing cats and dogs,” Worick declares (whines), dragging himself out. His smile is long and lazy, but Alex thinks he looks more tired than he did before.

Nicolas angles his head up to watch Worick come around the couch. Alex doesn’t know what alerted him to the other man’s presence, chalking it up to another layer of the relationship she’s yet to understand. A thick, impenetrable layer.

Worick looks down at each of them, frowning. “Where’s mine?” he asks, already pinching Nic’s drink and adjusting it in his palms. Alex is unable to not notice that his lips press right where Nicolas’ have been.

Nicolas signs at him.

“What?” Worick’s whine is not unlike a child’s. “How mean. You expect me to go down there by myself when the power can go out at any moment?”

Nicolas smirks and signs something Alex can’t read either.

“Oh, low blow,” Worick says through an exhale. “Of course Al-chan went by herself. She’s the bravest of the three of us.”

Alex thinks she doesn’t detect as much a tease in Worick’s tone as usual. Some days she is almost ambitious enough to think she can tell the differences in his tone, the way Nina can.

Almost.

Worick sets down the mug, then wiggles one finger in a circular motion. Nicolas rolls his eyes. He starts to scoot and Alex has to as well, mindful of her drink. In the end, she’s squashed in a corner to avoid invading Nicolas’ space, but she's slightly more distracted by the way Worick yawns and stretches out on the couch. His head comes to rest on Nicolas’ lap, his hair tickling Alex’s skin where the blanket isn’t covering.

“Storms are the worst,” Worick says, ignoring the way Nicolas scowls.

“Worick…” Alex quiets down her protest; Worick is tilting his head to look at her.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asks.

Alex stumbles mentally for an understanding how Worick can know. She sags back into her spot, grips her mug harder.

Worick turns his head in Nicolas’ lap to look out the window. For an absurd instant, Alex thinks he’s looking at it like he has a nightmare of his own waiting to crack down on him like the lightning.

Maybe she’s wrong. Still, she indulges an urge that lowers her hand into Worick’s hair, freeing it from a few tangles. Worick exhales deeply and shuts his eye.

Thunder crashes outside. Alex flinches. Something warm presses against her side.

Carefully, she peeks up. Nicolas’ girth is somehow more there, at her disposal, and when she thinks she should lean away out of consideration, there’s another boom of thunder, like it’s trying to break the sky.

A memory, or maybe it’s the nightmare, rushes at her, and is gone just as the thunder’s petered out. But it was enough to make her screw her eyes shut and ride out a shaky breath. She cracks open an eye and finds Nicolas looking at her in that impassive way she can’t dissect.

Nicolas looks away, arms stretching out across the back of the couch. He doesn’t glance back her way.

Alex watches him a while. He doesn't look back at her.

So, with a little huff, she thumps her head down onto Nicolas’ shoulder.

He tenses, or at least she thinks he does, but it’s gone too fast for her to know. Yet he doesn’t shrug her off. She lets out a tiny breath she held in, brings the hot chocolate back to her lips for a slow slip.

Over its lip, Worick’s looking at her again, eye tight and smile sympathetic. Her hand resumes weaving through his hair, and his face begins to relax.

“Damn storm, huh?” he says.

“I like the rain,” she says, meaning it.

Worick’s smile takes a knowing tinge as his eye shuts again.

“Yeah, me too.” Worick laces his hands over his chest. “So does Nic, actually.”

Alex wonders if that’s a lie, keeps wondering because she doesn’t want to ask, not now when Nicolas is warm against her and Worick looks like he may be resting off his weariness. So, for now, she accepts that they all like the rain.

Just maybe not the sewage it washes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea that Nic has the habit of dumping blankets on people who need them. I also like Worick thinking he can use Nic as a pillow too.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Braid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worick is ill, his hair is a mess, and something is done about it.

**-x-**

Worick’s hair has the texture of ribbons.

It’s a minor conclusion Alex makes as she smoothes a few strands away, soft against her skin, and threatening to tangle from a night’s worth of restlessness. She thinks, more as an afterthought, that Worick’s hair is one so many women would bargain with the devil to get.

“I am quite fine,” Worick is saying as she parts aside his hair, the sound no better than a croak.

Alex presses the length of her palm over his forehead and confirms their expectations.

“Fever,” she says with a frown.

Worick mutters, a pitiful sound from a man buried under two layers of blankets with only his head out for inspection. “No, no,” he sighs, smiling blearily up at her. “I’m always this hot.”

Alex doesn’t humor that double insinuation and looks up at Nicolas, who then repeats the action, earning a louder mutter of incoherencies from Worick. Alex notes how easily Nicolas’ hand can swallow Worick’s face, but the Tag grazes his partner’s skin with the back of a few fingers.

He makes a gesture in front of Worick’s face.

“I am not a liar.” A pout. “I just like staying in bed this much. I make a living off it.”

Neither of them are listening to the prattle though. Alex sighs and looks back at Nicolas, who must have handled an ill Worick before. She tries to not dwell on the details or hows of memories she has no participation in.

“He can’t run any deliveries today,” she starts.

Nicolas, bypassing whatever complaint Worick is still going on about, signs to her: **[Doctor.]**  It’s one of several she’s accustomed to as a means to keep up with the life of the Handyen. ‘Food’ is another frequent contender.

“What?” Worick’s rolling and propping up on his side. “I saw that. We don’t need to bother Dr. Theo with something like this.” It translates more along the lines of, ‘Ha, no thanks on getting help from that asshole if I can help it’.

Alex rejects Worick’s pleading smile and nods firmly to Nicolas.

“Are either of you listening to me?”

Nicolas signals enough for Alex to understand he’ll handle the errands for the day. When she nods her understanding, he makes his way out, but not without planting his hand on Worick’s head. There’s no ruffle, and it’s hardly a pat.

It’s still something.

Worick whines as if he's been slapped all the same.

**-x-**

“It’s no surprise,” Dr. Theo says, scanning files that Alex is pretty sure have nothing to do with Worick. “With all the germ swapping he does.”

Worick says something under his breath that doesn’t sound polite. His hair's condensed into a sloppy bun, a style Alex has not seen on him yet. His usual tenor has also narrowed down to mumbles and croaks, and Alex’s arms around him had been the only thing to keep his steps from being more wobbly than they already were.

“He shouldn’t die, anyway.” Dr. Theo doesn’t sound excited by his own conclusion.

Nina makes a little face at that, her attention on Worick’s hands, far larger than her own. Hers move with a deftness befitting a doctor-to-be. “Your hands are very cold, Worick. Did he tell you he wasn’t sick?”

Alex nods.

“Well, if it means I get to be pampered by such fine ladies,” Worick says, then stumbles on a cough. He looks dejected by it, like he can't believe he made such a wretched sound.

Nina chuckles and shakes her head before fishing out a lollipop. “It’ll help your throat. I’ll give you another if you’re a good patient.”

“I’d rather have a smoke,” Worick says, rasps, really, but he’s popping the treat in his mouth. Alex can’t help the smile as a little light returns to Worick’s eye. “Oh, it’s my favorite flavor.”

Alex watches them, the way Nina fusses and the way Worick behaves with a little more drama than necessary as she evaluates him. Gradually, Worick’s playfulness wanes, and he’s almost docile as Nina tends to him. Once, he catches Alex looking at him and bumps up his smile.

When it’s Dr. Theo’s turn to wrap it up, Nina leaves and returns to offer Alex a brown paperbag.

“Here. They’re lemons and a jar of honey. It’ll help his throat.”

Alex peeks in the bag. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Nina nods firmly. “I try to keep a little stock around here. Natural soothers. They can make a big difference. Plus, we don't have the luxuries of bigger clinics as it is. You learn to make do when you have to.”

“Thank you.” Alex hesitates, then says, quieter, “It’s the first time he’s gotten sick. That I’ve seen.”

Nina studies her then looks over to Worick, who has earned himself a smack on the back of his head from Dr. Theo's clipboard. “He’s not like Nicolas, but he’s resilient.” She seems to want to say more, then stops, smiling back at Alex. “Nicolas is busy with errands? I’m glad you’re there.”

Alex blinks. “Oh, well, I’m sure...if anyone was--”

Nina’s little shake of her head quiets Alex. “Mm-mm. I mean you. You’re a kind person.”

Alex doesn’t know if that’s accurate, and knows least how to respond. The way Nina looks at her though re-instills a smile and a little confidence. Alex chuckles.

“I’m glad someone like you is going to be a doctor.”

Nina’s cheeks go a little pink, but her smile is wider.

“Nina.”

Nina is at full attention. “Yes!”

At Dr. Theo’s behest, she locates a bottle that is offered to Worick.

Worick eyes the bottle suspiciously, but it’s Alex who comes over and gently plucks it out of his hand. She’s not entirely sure he won’t scatter them in an alley otherwise.

“Two a day for ten days,” Dr. Theo tells Worick, who sucks louder on his pop in response. “Now, get the hell out of my office so I can take care of actual patients.”

They do, and it’s a stubborn trek back that requires slow pacing and several breaks. Alex manages with one free arm to both haul them and their package up the stairs, unlock the door, and deposit Worick into bed, aiding in his undress without a blink at what tries to be a flirtatious remark but trails off into a tired mumble.

By the time Nicolas returns, Worick’s voice has a load of congestion to it and he falls in and out of sleep intermittently. Alex heard the footsteps overhead (and she knows she heard it only because Nicolas allowed her to) as she warmed a chicken broth that Worick teased her should be fed to him by her. He promptly dozed off after.

Now, Alex mounts the steps with caution, balancing a tray. Worick’s door has been left open and she peeks in time to see Nicolas dabbing a small towel against the other man’s skin. She almost starts when his eyes dart to her, but his focus drops back to Worick.

With slow steps, Alex enters, sneaking glances over at Nicolas. When he does look at her again, waiting, she catches on and details Dr. Theo’s medical advice.

“I put the pills in the desk,” she adds, not including the purpose for why, but given Nicolas’ nod, she figures it was the right choice. 

Nicolas doesn’t make a sign for her to leave, and she doesn’t plan to. She settles on the edge of Worick’s bed and plucks a strand of his soft hair from near his eye. A few strands have gone damp from the towel or his sweat, and there are more tangles than before.

A bright, tired eye cracks open, drags over to the two individuals in his room.. Worick’s smile is slower to reach his lips.

“I feel like a king being pampered,” he says.

Nicolas snorts and points with one finger toward the food. Worick follows the motion.

“Oh, Al-chan cooking just for me? Just the view is enough to cure me.”

Alex has no reprimand, not with the dark loops under his eyes, the way he blinks slowly as if to refocus his vision, and the way his flirtations shrink under his harder breathing or a cough. Instead, she helps Worick prop up and places the tray comfortably on the sick man’s lap. Worick shares a tired smile Nicolas’ way as he adjusts to the new position.

“It’s better to have it while it’s warm.” Alex gently nudges the cup closer to the tray. “Some warm lemon and honey too.”

Worick takes in his meal, though he hardly looks heavy with appetite. His smile pushes up a bit more. It falls when he notices the way Alex is staring at him. Rather, the disorder that is his hair. “Something wrong?”

Alex sighs, more to herself as she leaves to retrieve something. She’s back quick and then crawls into the bed, carefully, to settle behind Worick and employing her legs to help the man stay upright.

“Al-chan, what-”

Alex handles the comb in one hand as she draws her fingers through Worick’s hair, collecting it behind his ear. She feels him tense as much as she feels Nicolas eyeing her. She ignores their curiosity and begins to work out the tangles in small strokes that won’t disturb Worick’s slurping.

“Oh,” Worick sounds surprised beneath the wheeze of his voice. “Al-chan, you player, if you wanted to play with my hair, you just had to ask.” There’s hardly energy to put into sounding playful.

Not that it stops Nic from rolling his eyes and have Alex bop him on the head with the flat of the comb.

Alex doesn’t have a vivid memory of learning a French braid, but it comes as easily as it is sitting behind Worick, listening to him sip his soup, feeling Nicolas’ eyes jump to her occasionally.

His hair is thicker than it looks, resilient, and with that quality that makes Alex wonder aloud, “Do you put anything in your hair?”

Worick hums. “If I said no, would you believe me?”

“I’d be doubtful.”

“I get a lot of compliments on my hair. It’s why I don’t cut it short.”

Alex tries to picture Worick with less hair. She remembers the newspaper, the young boy with the suspiciously same colored hair, with eyes more vacant than a child's eyes should be. 

"You can pull off short hair," she says, soft.

“I am blessed with a face for it. The hair is part of the package though."

“Women do love nice hair.” It’s an afterthought, and it slows Alex’s progress as she thinks of Worick’s fatigue after an entire day of clients yesterday. “But you have layers. Do you cut it yourself?”

“I do. I learned enough from a girl at Pussy a long time ago.”

Alex’s attention goes to Nicolas, for an instant, then back to Worick’s hair. “Really? It’s well done. So,” she bites her lip, a moment’s hesitation, “does that mean…?”

She can practically hear Worick’s smirk under all the sickness. “Yeah. I cut Nic’s hair too.”

Nicolas grunts.

“He’s not fond of people with sharp objects going toward his head,” Worick adds. He chuckles over at his partner. “Plus, he’s such a--”

“O **L** i **v _E_   _o_ i**L."

Alex stops mid-braid, stares over at Nicolas.

"Olive oil?" she repeats.

" **w** H _ **A**_ T _H_ **E**   _ **p**_ u **tS**  I **n** i ** _T_**.”

Alex breaks into a smile.

“Hey!” Worick’s cry crashes down into a fit of coughing.

It doesn't end soon enough, and Alex is left patting his back with one hand and maintaining the braid in the other. Nicolas takes a step forward.

“Aw, hell-” Worick trips over another fit that has him put a hand to his chest. It feels like several minutes of his muscles convulsing beneath Alex's palm.

Nicolas comes to Worick’s side, offering the water Alex had left earlier. When it’s clear Worick’s struggling to steady his hand around it, Nicolas swats it aside and holds the bottle himself. Alex continues smoothing his back throughout, fingers itching to trace the tattoo stretches across it. They don’t, and gradually rub comforting patterns as Worick’s cough dilutes to heavy, quivering breaths.

It seems like he’s about to say something, a sly comment or two. Nothing comes out. Instead, Worick clears his throat and sighs pitifully around a new mouthful of broth. Alex smoothes her hand once more over his back, patient, before it catches a few hairs that got loose during Worick’s hacking.

"Okay?" she asks.

Worick offers a weak moan of confirmation. 

Nicolas remains seated beside his partner, and when Alex glances around a broad shoulder to inspect how much has been eaten, she thinks Nicolas’ hand is at the right position to be resting over Worick’s. She doesn't try peeking any further.

She leans back into her spot and smiles at her work, handling the hair preciously. Questions drift to and fro in her mind, of how many clients have scraped their fingers through Worick’s hair, gripped it too hard, yanked at it because their money paid for every last strand of it. Do any of them soothe his scalp, brush his hair back for the simple reason of seeing him relax under the ministration as he does now?

Something tells Alex that they don’t.

She listens to Worick’s breathing, the gentle clink as he finishes his meal, and the weak sips when he nurses his drink. He makes a humming kind of noise.

When the hair’s tied off, Worick’s fingers drift back to feel it.

He manages a grin back over his shoulder.

Alex squeezes his arm and stands at the same time Nicolas does. She gives him a small nod as she reaches first for the tray to take back downstairs. When she's peering back into the room, Worick is asleep, half-propped up by his partner.

In Nicolas’ mouth is the second lollipop Nina gave Worick.

Alex watches the way Nicolas’ fingers graze the top of Worick’s head, move to the braid, thumb roaming over the bumps and, finally, toying with the tail at the end.

Alex smiles and begins to retreat, thinking the radio will be a soothing end to a long day. Yet just as she steps back, she catches Nicolas’ arm motioning toward her.

Eyebrows furrowed, Alex considers signing to him her confusion, thinking she misunderstood. Then, Nicolas makes a decisive gesture that beckons her in She shuffles in, mindful of Worick sleeping. She’s unsure where to position herself, so she opts for the other side of the bed, sandwiching Worick in and that seems right. 

There’s a sudden pressure on her head, and Alex realizes it’s Nicolas’ hand, warmer than she expects, before it’s withdrawn. She ogles him, then his hands as they sign. She’s sure she understands it.

**[Good work.]**

It’s enough to invigorate her. She’s smiling big, looking between the two men for a moment.

 _Does he really use olive oil_ , she mouths.

Nicolas only smirks around the candy at her in answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was entirely inspired by Worick's hair in a French braid in the manga and I have to think he has to take good care of it given his gigolo job. I don't think his clients take such good care of it though (that client we see in the manga tugging on it...)
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading another silly little thing!


	4. Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex sings while the Handymen do what they always do.

**-x-**

 

_“I’ve heard there was a secret chord,_

_That David played and it pleased the Lord,_

_But you don’t really care for music, do you...”_

  


Worick watches the pimp recoil with each, heavy footstep Nicolas takes. He’s gurgling things Nicolas may be unable to read off his bloody lips, or just as easily ignoring them. Hands that are dirtier than either of the Handymen’s raise up, quivering, a gesture of defeat and at the same time of a plea.

Nicolas practically vibrates with directionless power, his body a storyboard of battle, sword impaled in the pimp’s leg. Somewhere, at least a half mile away, a high rank tag lies crumpled, defeated.

 

_“Well it goes like this,_

_The fourth, the fifth,_

_The minor fall, and the major lift,_

_The baffled king composing Hallelujah…”_

 

“Again, huh?” Worick fishes out a cigarette with one hand when he rather be collapsing from his own exhaustion. His other hand still holds a gun clipped with a silencer, the feel of it far less heavy than the one in his chest.

He wants to laugh, to expend it all out the only way he knows how. He manages to light the smoke instead. A flame winks to life, illuminating his features the way the moon can’t, stuck behind the clouds.

The pimp’s eyes dart his way.

_“Your faith was strong,_

_But you needed proof,_

_You saw her bathing on the roof,_

_Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you…”_

 

The pimp is remembering him now, in full clarity. Worick smiles around his smoke and approaches.

When this old sac of wrinkles and pudge was leaner, younger, he crossed paths with Worick, the pretty-faced whore that everyone heard whispers (or curses) about at some point or another.

Though it’s not the rumors the pimp’s seeing as he gapes between Worick and Nicolas, the sword, the gun. Years and years before he approached Worick with a proposition, was rejected, and when the pimp’s gall got the better of him and he slipped a few choice, crude words about Nicolas’ potential for profit beneath a slew of men who’d like that kind of thing, Worick assured him, with a tone as sweet as his eye was blue, he’d put a hole in the pimp if he ever saw him again.

He never saw him again. That is, until tonight.

Worick touches Nic’s arm and descends upon the pimp.

He smiles, blows a ring of smoke into that old face.

He aims the gun.

 

_“She tied you to a kitchen chair,_

_She broke your throne, she cut your hair,_

_And from your lips, she drew the Hallelujah…”_

 

The pimp’s scream chokes on his own tongue. Nicolas shares his partner’s grin as he brings down his sword for one, decisive stroke.

Bodies litter the alley behind Bastard, lumps of long since unremembered aspirations and hopes. Blood pools by Worick’s shoes, the moon struggling to reflect as it now peeks through the clouds.

Worick steps away before the leather is ruined and almost sags back against the wall. Nicolas is already plucking up limbs with a trembling hand, mechanical in his method of disposing the bodies for Chad to ultimately file paperwork for. His grin has already died.

“We’re late for Alex’s show,” Worick says to no one. He takes a deep drag.

Alex’s voice continues to trickle. Over him, Nicolas, the corpses.

Nicolas stumbles.

 

_“Maybe I’ve been here before,_

_I know this room, I’ve walked this floor,_

_I use to live alone before I knew you…”_

 

Worick catches him, the strain of sheer muscle bearing down on his weary body making him curse and then curse again when he’s obligated to abandon his cigarette and gun. Both arms encircle Nicolas. He groans.

They both deteriorate onto the alley’s floor. Worick finally laughs, but all that spills out is a cracked exhale. Nicolas sinks into his side, his breathing heavy. Worick shuts his eye and lets his head fall back. It’s hardly a respite.

 

_“I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch,_

_Love is not a victory march,_

_It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”_

 

Nicolas jerks against him. Worick grips his arm, hard, his shoulder, rides it out with strength that can’t be limitless, bites his own tongue when Nicolas’ hand crushes his wrist. Then grows slack.

They can’t linger.

 

_“There was a time you’d let me know,_

_What’s real and going on below,_

_But now you never show it to me, do you...”_

 

Worick collects himself, collects Nicolas, and they’re both wobbling to their feet. Nicolas blinks slowly at the blood that isn’t Worick’s on the alley as they pass through it, two bodies meandering as one. Worick does not think beyond each step they take.

 

_“And remember when I moved in you,_

_The holy dark was moving too,_

_And every breath we drew was Hallelujah…”_

 

Worick heaves, he breathes and feels his lungs burn. They crash into a wall once, twice, and Nicolas all but dissolves into the filth of the brick. Worick snatches his face with both hands, skin hot and yet somehow always less hot than Nicolas’. He yanks their faces close, their foreheads bump.

Nicolas’ name comes out fierce, raw.

There’s the pressure of Nic’s hand on his arms. They cling, and then both he and Worick push off the wall.

Somehow, always, they tread on.

 

_“Maybe there’s a God above,_

_And all I ever learned from love,_

_Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you…”_

 

A back entrance door and then they’re awash with tonight’s lights of purples and reds and blues. Everything’s deep in hues, the clientele of a higher caliber and there’s wine that cannot match the richness of Alex’s voice. Speakers bleed it deep into Worick’s bones.

There’s one, white light, a streak of radiance on her as she sings. Her eyes are closed.

Worick feels his body tremble and moves to press on. Nicolas’ hand, otherwise hanging limp on his arm, seizes. When Worick looks at him, he sees him watching Alex too through his haze.

Worick’s lip twitching into a smile is instinct, but its weakness goes unseen. They’re both hidden under the atmosphere, for the brief moment they accept it as, both wilting against a speaker. Nicolas rests his head against it, eyes half-lidded and then closing as the song radiates through every ache and the weight of his daze, and Worick’s right there pressed against his smaller body, blood smearing onto his good shirt.

 

_“It’s not a cry you can hear at night,_

_It’s not somebody who’s seen the light,_

_It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”_

 

The vibrations from each lyric carry through Nicolas, into Worick.

 

_“Hallelujah…”_

 

The look on her face convinces Worick he’s less tired.

 

_“Hallelujah…”_

 

Later, she'll probably see their faces, and the blood and their limps, and she'll look like she wants to say something, but instead reaches for them, and they may just collapse into her, and her warmth may be the only sensible thing as they're hauled to Dr. Theo's.

 

_"Hallelujah...."_

 

But for now, Worick thinks, this is fine, so he shuts his eyes too, and listens.

 

_“Hallelujah.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An excuse to write a songfic! Plus I'd love to hear Alex sing this song especially with that chord progression.
> 
> Thank you for reading yet another headcanony piece!


End file.
